Poetry

Dark pines on low, rolling hills,
hiding those hills so slightly.
What life hides beneath their boughs,
springing up between pine needles?
Little life in such acid soils
produced by pines and oaks and magnolias.
These seem sufficient for the beauty
of these hills, a different beauty from the hills
I’m used to — towering hills spotted with caves, covered in oaks and maples, redbuds, dogwoods,
tulip trees in full flower, filling the forests
with whites and purples, a touch of pink. These hills
may seem more plain —
unless . . .
unless you look more closely . . .
then you can see the beauty’s just as clear, only
a little different in the dark green needles.

Originally published at http://troycamplinpoetry.blogspot.com.

POETRY

The place I find myself in is a net
Of works, of words, of poets which converge
On me, on every poet singing yet
More sounds to make reality emerge

Out of the Cantor dust of words and dew
Of nothingness that promises to be.
I mold the mud and make it act. A new
Man made, a poet made, much more than me.

And he will feel the flow, and he will grow
The poetry, a branch to grow, divide
And show, discovering new knowledge, so
The net can live. He wrote; the night, it died.

Day broke across the poet’s face, the lace
Of curtain scattered it. He wrote: “The place . . . “

Originally published at http://troycamplinpoetry.blogspot.com.